Eagle Star, Hunter Moon
by The Otherworlder
Summary: Wisdom is knowing both sides of the tale, and Aragorn, reverred captain of Gondor, beloved friend of Harad, knows exactly the pain of such wisdom. How does one choose when caught between two warring nations, neither in the wrong?
1. Prologue

AN: New story, everyone! And it's LOTR (which is another evidence why you should NEVER believe what I say on my profile). This one is going to be a multi-parter, roughly 10 chapters, I would say. I will try to update twice every week. Of course I always have different things to do nowaday, so allow me some wiggle room. And by the way, the first chapter is a prologue of sort, that's why it's shorter. General chapter length is around 2000 words, like most of my works. Okay, enough rant. Hope you enjoy the story! Don't forget to review.

Disclaimer: I don't own. Blah.

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Bregol was not a young soldier. He had served under many great generals, the wise Ecthelion, the mysterious Thorongil, and now the stern but shrewd Denethor. It was not that he never tasted defeat. That would be nearly impossible for a seasoned soldier like him. There were times when his company was dearly outnumbered; there were ambushes; and there were times when fortune itself was against them. Yet he had never been defeated thus, out-maneuvered, out-strategized, and plainly out-smarted by a small band of Haradrim led by a young man barely seventeen summers old.

There was something fantastical about the whole situation that even now, bound and on his knees before the young Haradrim general, he could not bring himself to believe the validity of it all. He stole a look of his companions that were also the unfortunate captives, and saw that they were just as dumbfounded as he himself. Sighing inaudibly, he turned his eyes back the young general of Harad. The young man before him was dusky as rich ember, like all those people from the southern deserts. He was slender and small, with delicate features rivaling that of a girl in beauty, and his wide dark eyes were like that of a child. Bregol could not and would not believe that such a boy could defeat him on the field.

"You do not believe it, do you?" Presently the youth spoke in fluent Westron, and Bregol looked up with shock. It was uncanny to hear his own thoughts echoed in the clear voice of this youth of Harad.

"You do not believe that I, an unlearned, uncouth barbarian from the south could out-maneuver you so easily on the battlefield. Even now you scorn me in your mind." The boy's voice was even and calm, with a faint detachment and disdain.

Bregol straightened his back as much as his bonds allow and answered stiffly, "It was merely an unfair stroke of luck that aided you."

"Unfair stroke of luck?" The youth whirled around, a sudden glint of steel now in his dark eyes. "And is it indeed very fair when you attack my people unprovoked and slaughter defenseless children and women?"

Bregol stayed silent then, but his fellow captive, a young, brash soldier named Aelfnin cried out loudly, "It is you barbarians who first invaded our country, and allied with the enemies of Mordor."

"Preposterous lies!" The young Haradrim's eye blazed. For a moment his delicate features were set in such hardened carven lines that they no longer seemed so beautiful. But that was a moment only, a second later he seemed calm once more, and the sharpness in his features vanished.

"You arrogant northerners are drowning with your self-proclaimed superiority." He said lightly and evenly, though the contempt was still apparent in his voice. "Long have you drove my people into the ground, never allowing us to set even a step beyond the desert. Long have you harassed us into slave-like obedience. Long have you wrested out hard-earned riches from us. But no longer. Harad will not bow her head to anyone, least of all the proud but rotting corpse that is Gondor. You had great generals and elvish wights with eagle eyes, but Harad also has her captain and teacher. Harad has her Taluya."

Taluya.

That was the last word Bregol heard from the young Haradrim, and that word troubled him. He had heard that word before. Taluya, a great bird of the desert, white-winged and silver eyed, with moonlight upon its plumes; beautiful, fierce, and deadly, the moon-hunter. He had seen such a creature but once, suddenly sweeping into the night sky and stealing his breath away. The name of such a creature did not frighten him then, for it was a beautiful name even by Gondorian standard.

Yet he had learned to fear the name should the people of Harad say it. They say the name with such fierce pride, warm affection and awed reverence; they say the name with the deepest respect and gratitude. It could not be simply about those hunting birds of the desert, Bregol had decided a long time ago.

He had no time to ponder out the meaning of such things. The next morning he and the other captives were forced to march south, following their merciless captors. The time was a blur. From sunrise to sundown there was only endless marching. Gradually, the familiar landscape of trees and water fell away to display endless plain of tall grass of a crisp yellow colour, then desert.

In the desert the ground was gold and the sky silver. The rare tall plants decked with black thorns were a startling green. The colours were so bright and sharp that they stung the eyes. In the desert there were cities. The cities of Harad were not built of stones, but decked with canvas. Around the occasional oasis in the desert, there would be tents, sometimes merely one or two dozens, sometimes exceeding hundreds. The city that marked their final terminus was beside a sapphire lake the size of half of Minas Tirith, with at least a thousand tents, and between the tents ran streets, alleys and roads. Despite of his bitter resentment, Bregol was amazed.

Slowly they approached the city. The young general rode at the head, followed by the captives, and tailed by more Haradrim soldiers. Bregol half expected the Haradrims to be flanking the road into the city, welcoming the victorious soldiers like they would do in Minas Tirith. But no such procession was there, and he was relieved that no such humiliation would further torment him.

When they were almost upon the first row of tents, they saw a lone rider there. It was far still, and Bregol could see nothing save a great black stallion and a lean figure upon it cloaked in grey. Yet the young general of Harad had no doubt to the identity of the rider.

"Taluya!" He gave a great call of joy, and galloped towards the lone figure.

"Taluya! Taluya!" Other Haradrim called as well, and a moment later their cries blended into excited speech in their native tongue, none of which Bregol understood.

So Taluya was indeed a man, a man greatly loved and revered here. Bregol thought. His dragging footsteps brought him nearer and nearer to the luminous grey- cloaked figure, and he found his heart growing heavier with a fascinated fear. At last the company halted before the rider upon the black stallion. He looked up and saw a tall and slender-framed man, taller than all he had seen save one. He was not of Harad, for he was pale like the moon. His face was stern and hard as if carven from white stone, and his hair was dark and flecked with faint grey. His eyes were grey also, clear and keen like those of an eagle. They were a very familiar pair of eyes. Bregol found he could not breath.

"Behold the great captain and teacher of Harad!" The young Haradrim said in Westron, his clear voice ringing with pride. "Behold him well, proud soldiers of the White City! How does the Taluya of the desert compare to your illustrious Thorongil, the Eagle of the North?"

A half smile was on the raven-haired man's face as he looked down at Bregol, his keen grey eyes holding the Gondorian soldier's gaze firmly. Bregol could not speak. He could not possibly answer the young Haradrim general's question. How does one compare two that are the same? Taluya and Thorongil were one indeed.


	2. Celebrating Doubt

AN: Sincere thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially those who pointed out my mistakes to me. (Some really stupids typos too. I couldn't believe I said osmosis instead of oasis... Argh! No more cellular biology for me!) Those reviews are great encouragement to me, so thanks again.

Here is a new chapter, I hope you all enjoy it.

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Celebration. 

For the King had decreed so this night.

"A toast to all of our soldiers!" Hamun, the great king of Harad, raised the cup in his hand. He was a man in the prime of his life, handsome, charismatic and perhaps even flamboyant. Now he looked splendid and in very good cheers, sitting upon his great chair in the lofty tent, raising the wine cup with such exaggerated gesture.

"Our brave warriors deserve a toast from all of us!" His voice boomed, and a roust of loud shouts and cheers answered him.

"Cheers! Cheers! To our warriors!" The captains and generals occupying the tent all shouted in the same jubilant manner, raising their cups and downing their drinks in one gulp.

Then the beautiful queen raised her cup as well, and called in her song like voice, with the wild pride of all Harad mothers. "A toast, captains," She said, "To Annem, who brought home victory. He is no disappointment even before his great father!"

"Cheers, cheers!" Another round of shouts around the tent. "To Annem, our great Prince!"

The young general fresh off the battlefield laughed and raised his cup graciously and drank with everyone. When the cup was again filled to the rim the young man declared, "And friends, a toast to Taluya, our moon-hunter, beloved friend and wise teacher, without whom no victory is possible!"

The shouts were wild.

"Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!" Cups touched with many a crisp "cling", sweet wine spilt into the already pungent air, laughter rang like the rushing of wild wind. "To our moon-hunter! Taluya! Taluya!"

Aragorn raised his cup with a faint half smile and drank the wine swiftly. The wild shouts of unreserved friendship stirred him, yes, and warmed him, but they did not move him to similar good cheers by any means. His heart was heavy with a listless premonition. The sight of Bregol, one of the soldiers under his command when he was still Thorongil in Gondor, struck an ominous chord in him. Already the darkness of the conflicts to come was assuaging his keen perception, and he was troubled.

It was well night midnight when at last the celebration was over and the party dispersed. Aragorn was about to make his leave when the king turned and said to him, "Stay for a while yet, Taluya. I would speak with you."

Answering with a slight nod, he stayed in his seat. When all was gone from the tent, even the queen and the prince, the King spoke. "You seemed troubled all night, friend." He asked. "What ails you?"

"Only some thoughts, my lord." Aragorn answered evenly.

"Ah." The king nodded. "Will you not speak of your concerns then, friend? I would like to know."

Aragorn pondered for a moment, before asking, "What mean you to do with the captives from Gondor?"

The king said with a shrewd grin, "Precisely the matter that I meant to speak with you of, Taluya. Think you those captives might know some important things of the defense of Gondor?"

Aragorn shook his head, and answered, "Nay, my lord. By the look of their uniforms, they seem common soldiers. They would not know much." He was truthful. All of the captives were common foot soldiers, save Bregol, who was even then merely a corporal. He probably knew more than those soldiers could ever comprehend, even though he was long gone from Gondor.

The king was silent for a moment, before saying with a dissatisfied grunt, "They are useless to me then. I had high hope that they may know something that we could use to our advantages. Yet speak with them still, Taluya, and see what you can find."

"And what mean you to do with them after that?" Aragorn pressed.

The king waved his hand, "It matters not. Sell them to the wealthy who will purchase them, or have them work somewhere, I care not."

There was a subtle frown on Aragorn's face, and he said evenly, "If I may say so, I do not think that is wise."

"What would you suggest then, Taluya?" The king's dark eyes narrowed a sliver, and his voice seemed curt.

"I would suggest letting them return home free, my lord." Aragorn said boldly.

"After they have slaughtered defenseless women and children, burned down villages for no reason at all, you propose letting them return home free? Is that how justice should be done in your eyes, Taluya?" The king's voice now had a bark in it, sharp and rebuking.

"I do wish for justice, yet more so ever, I want peace between Harad and Gondor." Aragorn said quietly. "Gondor did not attack out of malice and ill will, but of doubt and misunderstanding. Revenge only begets revenge. But if we are to let those captives return free, it will be a sign as our friendship. Friendship must begin somewhere."

"Friendship, and peace?" The king let out a derisive snort and said disdainfully. "With those proud and uncaring northerners? It is impossible. They despise our people and that will never change no matter for what reason. Speak no more for them, Taluya, lest others doubt where your loyalty truly lies."

"My loyalty is with the people of Harad, and that will not change." Aragorn said solemnly. " I only wish peace and prosperity for Harad of her people. I wish that they should never fear antagonism from the north again, and I wish that they should be able to roam northern lands freely with neither hatred nor oppression from the people there. And none of this can be achieved, if an understanding between Gondor and Harad cannot be realized. 'Ts a simple thing for you to command, but it may serve greatly yet…"

"Enough!" The king cut him off abruptly. "That is enough. Speak no more, for I am decided, and naught you say shall change my decision."

Silence. In which all the wild joys of celebration that still lingered in the air were gone in a flash, and tension pulled full force in a heartbeat. The kind of silence of brewing storm, and sizzling sparks, waiting to explode. Fortunately Aragorn was not one to explode. He bowed low and said, "If that is the King's will."

The king's demeanor softened, and he threw back his dark head and laughed. Clapping Aragorn on the back like an old friend he said loudly, "Good, good. You are a good man, Taluya, but you are too idealistic in every sense of the word."

Again, there was a half-smile on the man's face, a wistful smile that could not quite lighten his stern and grim features, but only added more profound sorrow.

"If I may, my lord, I wish to speak with the prisoners and find out what I can." He requested quietly.

"Go your way then, friend." The king was fully returned to his euphoric mood, and his hand was again waving exaggerated gestures. "I am most glad for your services, Taluya."

With another bow Aragorn took his leave and made his way between the myriad of tents towards the one that housed the prisoners. That tent was at the edge of the city, surrounded by mostly empty tents that were only put into use when the city welcomed guests. Half a dozen of soldiers stood on guard outside the tent, and upon the sight of him they bowed respectfully.

Aragorn nodded at them, before asking, "Are the prisoners sufficiently secured?"

"We tied their hands tautly, captain. They should be no trouble." One of the soldiers answered.

Aragorn nodded once more and said, "Then you can all retire home early this night. I wish to speak to the prisoners privately. I shall be here until those of next shift arrive."

The guards nodded their thanks and left promptly, no questions, no hesitation. Aragorn watched their retrieving backs with bitterness. Those soldiers trusted him without reserve, to a degree that he did not imagine possible. Yet still he must betray their trust as a common fraud would, for a lofty end that perhaps, just perhaps, could still do good.

But not tonight, least not tonight. He thought painfully with determination.

Inside the tent he found four Gondorian soldiers. Bregol he knew well enough from his days in Gondor, and another whose face he could recall vaguely but the name escaped beyond him. The other two soldiers were young, and he did not recognize them at all. At his entrance they all looked at him uncertainly with mixed fear and hope. Silently he sat down before them, surveying them keenly without a word. His face must have been unkind, for the young soldiers shied away from his gaze and looked away as if fearful.

"Tell me, Bregol. What led you to this position tonight?" At last Aragorn asked, his voice neither gentle nor harsh, but a perfectly evenness that was impossible to read.

Bregol shifted uncomfortably under those piercing grey gaze. At last he said weakly, "For the life of me I could not have imagined that I should see you here, Captain Thorongil."

There was a pause, and absolute incredulity and awe stole the faces of the two younger soldiers. Every man knew the name of the legendary Thorongil, yet it was least expected that the man of the legend should appear thus, as an exulted friend in the heart of Harad.

Bregol shifted again and asked tentatively, "Why are you here in Harad, captain?"

"I believe I am asking questions here, soldier." Again Aragorn said in his expressionless voice. "Tell me, what happened?"

"Those barbaric Haradrims attacked us in the middle of night! They simply rode down on us!" One of the young soldiers barked.

"And you have done nothing to provoke their anger? Is their attack completely unjustified then?" Aragorn pressed, his voice hardening.

Bregol cried out in a sudden burst of anger, "What would those barbarians know of justice? We have never wronged them, yet they were ever against us, and allied with the enemies of Mordor!"

And at those words the grey eyes upon him turned even colder, like frozen sea of northern winter.

"Is that what you see, Bregol?" That chill was now in Aragorn's voice. "Then will you deny also the crime of burning down their village and slaughtering their people? Can you swear before the Gods of the West that you are free of such charge?"

Bregol stiffened and made no answer, but one of the young soldiers shouted, "They stole into the land of Gondor without the good grace of the Steward! They are like common thieves. Should we not punish them for such crime?"

"And you could find no other solution to this problem other than slaughtering the defenseless and innocent?" For the first time there was anger in Aragorn's voice. "Those people simply wished to live untroubled. None of them had ever held a sword! How could you murder them in cold blood?"

And at last Bregol answered stiffly, "We all have orders to follow, Captain Thorongil. You should know that well."

"Whose order then?" Aragorn pressed. "Not another warmongering captain who wishes to glorify his own banner with blood?"

Bregol balled his fists angrily and cried, "The Lord Denethor himself decreed those orders! And who are you to speak of warmongering captains? Did you not write your own name with blood of thousands?"

Even as those words left Bregol he knew he had spoken unfair in his anger. Silently he braved for the raging storm from the man before him. Yet it never came. Aragorn did not look angry; there was only an air of resignation about him.

"I am not here to banter words with you, or justify my causes." He said wearily. "Tell me, what does Lord Denethor plan to do with Harad?"

"I do not know." Bregol answered quietly. "I am merely a soldier. I do not know the councils of the captains and lords."

"Then tell me of the orders you received." Aragorn said. "Were there more attacks planned on the Harad people?"

Bregol almost answered again, but managed to check his words. "I do not know." He said warily.

"You do not know?" Aragorn's voice was skeptical, and his searing silver gaze was harsh.

Bregol straightened his back and cried defiantly, "You can not wrest an answer from me so easily!"

Aragorn laughed hollowly, and said with an almost inaudible sigh, "If you would not speak, I would not press you. What do you take me for?"

He said no more, and stood up. Without another word he turned and headed outside. Even as he was about to step out of the tent Bregol called again, "Captain Thorongil!"

Aragorn paused, and said quietly without turning back, "That is no longer my name, at least not here, Bregol."

"But that was your name once!" Bregol said heatedly, resentment and despair alike lacing his voice. "Has your loyalty completely shifted? Have you become this Taluya and threw away Thorongil for good?"

Another almost imperceptible sigh, then came the unreadable reply.

"I am both, Bregol, and I am neither."


	3. Dark Confrontation

Dark.

Pierced with brilliant stars.

So the sky looked when Aragorn entered the prisoner tent on the next day, when almost all had fallen deep in slumber. He sent the guards away, and entered the tent alone. The captives were dozing off, but at the sight of him they started and looked at him warily. For a moment he stood there silently, then he drew his knife and cut away the bonds on the prisoners. His action was received with utmost confusion. For a long while they only stared him with uncomprehending expression plastered across their faces.

"Can you stand?" He asked briskly, ignoring their questioning looks.

Carefully Bregol pushed himself off the ground, supporting himself shakily after the long period of inactivity. "I can stand," He said uncertainly. "Though I think I shall need a while before I can walk."

"Then you shall have a while," Aragorn said in a low voice. "But not for long. We shall have to leave here long before the next shift of guards come. I have prepared horses, and they are sturdy steeds that will have no trouble bearing us across the desert. I shall lead you as far as I may, and I know this land well. Should we become separated, you can find maps in the saddlebag. Follow the route I marked on the map, and you should escape the desert."

The confusion on the Gondorian soldiers' faces turned to amazement, and hope and gratitude. "Then you do not truly serve Harad, Captain Thorongil?" One of the young soldiers asked hopefully.

"Truly serve Harad?" Aragorn laughed with a faint bitterness. "No. I did not intend to, at least. I came here to learn of their ways and gather what information I can. Yet seldom do events unfold as one intends."

There was an awkward silence. Finally Bregol asked tentatively, "Will you return with us to Gondor, Captain Thorongil?"

"Yes, for a while at least, if fortune be so kind." Aragorn answered. "I have much to speak of to the Lord Denethor." After a pause he continued in a low voice, "Let us go now. We have tarried long enough."

Quietly they stole out of the tent and into the boundless desert. The sand was glimmering with a faint white light under the bright star spray. The moon was full, yet pale, faint and grey. Aragorn stepped into the shadowy world and seemed suddenly to melt into the desert, only another brush of grey and black. He strode across the sand with easy grace, every step firm and doubtless. He seemed to be at great ease with this land. The Gondorian soldiers followed him silently, trying only to put on foot before another with no time for either speech or awe.

"We should be nearing a small pond soon." Aragorn said evenly as he led the way around another sand dune. "Horses await us there, and we shall ride then."

He took another few steps, suddenly stopped right in his track. For a moment he stood rooted, as if trying to catch some sound from the distance. At last he said, urgency stealing his voice, "I do not know how, but pursuers are already behind us. Quickly now!"

Moments later the others picked up the tell tale sign as well. Bright sparks of red were in the distance, glittering like ghost fire in the night. There was a whirlpool of faint, faraway voices, mingling in the night air: shouts, ringing of steels and the trembling of the sand under many hooves. The lights and sounds alike were moving towards them at an incredible speed, sweeping near like an ill wind. When they reached the small pond, a line of riders was already visible on the edge of the desert, where the sand and the sky met.

The horses resting beside the pond seemed to register their agitation, and came galloping at a single gesture from Aragorn. With one fluid motion Aragorn leaped atop the great black stallion. "On the horses!" He cried. "Ride! Now!"

The Gondorian soldiers followed his lead and quickly leaped on the horses. They took off with great speed, leaving a sandstorm behind them. The pursuers did not relent. Already they are drawing near to no more than twice a single arrow's range. The Haradrims were no archers and carried no bows, however, and for that Aragorn was thankful.

The chase was hanging by a thread. Slowly, and slowly, Aragorn saw that they were gaining ground. The Haradrims were falling back. Yet before he could plan further, a line of riders appeared before them, suddenly sprang from the sand like cunning hunters that had been long awaiting the wretched preys. Aragorn could feel his hope sinking.

Reins pulled, great steeds charged and wheeled, hooves stamped and raised a storm of sand. Aragorn soon found himself caught between the two lines of riders, then surrounded on all sides before he could found a break in the formation. Weapons were drawn, spears and knives and swords, and pointed towards him with both determination and hesitation. The king of Harad rode up with his young son Annem beside him, sword drawn and raised. Aragorn saw Bregol beside him tense, and clench the hilt of his short sword forcefully, perhaps considering the possibility of throwing the weapon into the heart of the Haradrim king.

"Wait!" Aragorn barked in Westron, before adding in a barely audible voice. "Wait. And aim only for his horse."

A look of confusion stole Bregol's face, but he had no chance to speak. Presently King Hamun spoke out in a hardened voice, "Is that how you repay friendship and trust, Taluya? You steal away my prisoners and consort with my enemies?"

Aragorn was silent, before saying quietly, "I only wish for peace, my lord. I said to your before, and I shall say it again: releasing those soldiers will be a sign of our friendship, and it will be a starting point to build at least an understanding, if not alliance between Gondor and Harad, my lord. 'Tis true that I acted against your will, but I was only thinking of Harad and her people…"

"How dare you speak of Harad and her people?" The Prince Annem shouted angrily. "Harad never was of any importance to you! You are only a spy from Gondor, here to gather information about our people. You wished nothing but harm on Harad! Indeed, are you not the same Thorongil of Gondor who led the barbaric northerners against our people? I heard those soldiers call you thus. Do you deny it?"

Aragorn looked at the young man. "You heard?" He asked wearily.

The young man returned the gaze unflinchingly, "I stood outside the tent and heard every conspiring word from your mouth." His voice was fierce.

"So you have heard." Aragorn said evenly, a faint note of resignation in his voice. "Then what use is it for me to speak more? All words are in vain now."

He lowered his head and seemed to fall silent. Yet discreetly he brought his hand in a downward motion, as if slashing the air. Bregol understood that gesture well, and reflexively he obeyed the command. In one swift motion he pulled his short sword free and threw it towards the Haradrim king's horse. The sword drove into the beast's neck with a horrendous might, forcing the blade in until the hilt touched the beast's skin. The horse let out a great wretched cry, and crumpled beneath the Haradrim king. That surprise and chaos was all Aragorn needed. He leaped like a hunter bird suddenly sprang from its perch. Before anyone could realize, he was already on the same horse as the Prince Annem, a sword on the young man's neck threateningly.

"Do not move." Aragorn said calmly, his voice perfectly even and expressionless.

The Haradrims froze upon their steeds, swords and spears halted in mid-hurtle. Even the Gondorian soldiers stared uncomprehendingly, their jaws slack from the disbelief.

"What is the meaning of this?" Hamun, who now stood on the ground flanked by his soldiers, shouted, sounding shocked and raged.

Aragorn ignored him, and turned to Bregol, nodding for the soldier to come near. Still confused, Bregol rode near, waiting for his orders.

"Remember my words to you, Bregol." Aragorn said quietly. "It will not take you long to escape this desert. Also, take the saddlebag on my horse. There is a letter in it addressed the Lord Denethor. Make sure the letter reaches him."

Noting the solemnity in Aragorn's voice, Bregol nodded and obediently retrieved the saddlebag. When that was done Aragorn turned to the King of Harad once more and spoke again in the tongue of the south, "I have only one demand for the life of your son, my lord."

Silence. Not a single breath stirred. The night air with thick and tension pulled, almost a tangible manifestation of the battle of wills. At last the Southron king stonily barked a command, "Part! Part and let them pass!"

Silently the circle of Haradrim soldiers parted.

"And you shall swear to me that no man of Harad will pursue them." Aragorn pressed.

"No man will pursue them!" The king growled impatiently. "By the graves of my forefathers I swear this. If the desert be kind with them, they shall reach Gondor in one piece."

More uncertain silence. Aragorn turned to the Gondorian soldiers and said sharply, "Why do you tarry still? Go now. Ride hard."

Horses began to amble away, still hesitant. "What of you, Captain?" Bregol asked.

"Go!" Aragorn commanded.

At last the horses broke into a gallop, across the silver sand. Their figures retreated into the darkness of the night, turned smaller and smaller, and finally vanished from their sight.

At last the Southron king said contemptuously, "Why are you still here, traitor? If you would go, vanish from my sight now, and my promise will hold. But know this: Harad will not suffer such a humiliation with bowed head and bent back. We shall have our revenge. When you reach your pathetic lord in the north, prepare your soldiers in haste, for the wrath of Harad shall be upon you swifter than a desert storm." The fury in his voice was unchecked, and his face was terrible to behold.

With an exhausted sigh Aragorn lowered the sword in his hand and threw it to the ground. He slipped down from the horse and went on his knees before the Southron king. Weapons flashed in the night, and this time, they moved without hesitation. Aragorn could feel the spear points and sword edges on his back, ready to skewer him at moment's notice. He heeded them not, but only looked to the king.

"Forgive me, my lord." He began quietly. "I bear you no ill will, nor would I wish harm on Harad and her people. Yet I must allow those soldiers to return to Gondor. The Lord Denethor of Minas Tirith is a man with little tolerance. He will not understand your reasons for those skirmishes; he will simply think Harad hostile invaders and enemies. His will rally his arms against Harad, and soldiers will march tothe desertbefore the next full moon. I had to sent words to him, my lord, not to conspire against Harad, only to appease him and pacify Gondor, to ask Gondor for peace."

"If they will come, let them come then!" The king cried. "Harad does not fear war!"

"But I do." Aragorn answered wearily. "Such a war would be futile and in vain, and bring needless suffering to people of both Gondor and Harad. The shadow looms ever in the east; Mordor is rising once more. Is now truly a time to fight amongst ourselves?"

The king did not speak. Receiving no replied Aragorn continued, "Please, I beg you to stay your wrath and reconsider. Gondor is not an enemy, at least, it does not need to be."

After a long moment of silence the king said bitterly, "It sounds so full of light when you say it, just as any other false promises and sweet poisonous words. How can I trust you now, Taluya? Nay, Thorongil! For that is what you are. You have hidden your true identity from us, readily betrayed our trust even though we treated like our own. You held a sword to my son to force my words! How can I trust you now?"

Aragorn said quietly, "No doubt it is difficult. I acted as a common spy and conspirator, that I will not deny. But none of my actions is out of ill will. I would never harm Harad or her people. I have submitted myself to your judgment, my lord, to prove to you that my loyalty lies with Gondor _and _Harad. My allegiance to you shall not sway."

The sky was already growing pale in the west, a dim grey line. The night was slowly slipping away. At last the king said with a wave of his hand, "Bind his hands and make him walk behind the horses. We return to the city."


	4. Ironic Stance

Disclaimer: Don't on. Nope. Not at all.

AN: Thank you for the reviews! They were great encouragement to me. New chapter is finally up. Hope you enjoy!

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Irony.

Before the sun had set he walked free among the tents, and before the sun rose again he was a prisoner; before the sun had set he could order the guards and soldiers strewn in the city, being their captain; before the sun rose again the same guards and soldiers watched him closely with hawk eyes and would not hesitate to run their sword through him should he prove troublesome. The idea came to Aragorn with such a persistent tenacity that he would find it humorous if not for his throbbing wrists. The taut rope was beginning to pain him considerably, and his mind was too occupied with shifting thoughts elsewhere to laugh at his miserable humour.

He shifted some more and stretched out his long legs before him, trying in vain to seat himself in a more comfortable fashion. His arms were tied behind him tightly, and a dull pain was slowly working its way in, searing muscles and penetrating bones. Again he tried to deter his thoughts from dwelling on the physical pain. He tried to ponder his current predicament. Idly he asked himself again if he was foolish to submit himself thus. He could have escaped the desert of Harad unscathed, if he did not throw away that sword in haste and instead left it resting beside the young Haradrim prince's neck.

Of course, he would shatter everything he worked for in the past few years. Long had he laboured silently in Harad, doing everything he could to limit and reduce conflicts between Harad and Gondor. He believed that he had almost succeeded, until now, when suddenly everything snapped explosively, and all the tentative, experimenting peace he had built was gone with the wind. Or perhaps, he was nowhere near success, he thought irately. He knew well the hatred the people of Harad felt towards Gondor, and Gondor returned the hatred with the same scorn and contempt. Such a feeling might express itself less and less, but it would never be truly gone or even diminished. At the least provocation it will flare and explode. Had he not witnessed it unfold before his very eyes? He had toiled for five long years in Harad, and he had accomplished nothing. Someone faraway threw down a spark and started a raging firestorm, exposing to him the absolute futility of his work.

What was he doing here? Why was he trying to untie an impossible knot from long ages past? Harad maintained enough ties with Mordor to prove an enemy of the free people of Middle-earth in almost everyone's eyes. Then why did he linger here as friend and teacher, helping this country untangle its ruffled wings so it may soar higher and farther?

"_Harad is a ferocious falcon."_ A voice from the past echoed in his mind, the voice that belonged to wise Gandalf. _"A pet-hunter of Sauron who kills blindly at its master's commands. But at least it is a crippled hunter, chained, blindfolded, with tangled wings. Take caution, my friend. You are slowly freeing the hunter from its chains and blindfold, and increasing its power many folds."_

"_Yet when it is free, it shall no longer serve a master." _He had answered._ "It will soar in the sky according its own will."_

"_Perhaps its own will is to continue serving Mordor, perhaps its own will is to bring the kingdom of Gondor to ruin. You underestimate the hatred bred with so many generations, Aragorn."_

"_The people of Harad do not only hate. They will learn to love once they can soar freely and see the truth with their own eyes, of that I am certain."_

The reply had come with a sad smile. _"I am afraid that you are too idealistic in every sense of the word, my friend."_

Fanciful ideals, false promises, and fantastic romances. Are those truly what he had been fighting for? Perhaps Gandalf was right, as was King Hamun. He was too idealistic, too _naïve, _and despite of his hardened years and the numerous deaths he had to face he still could not grasp those underlying concepts of darkness.

_Love not thy enemies. _

They may be sculpted of the same flesh and bone that shaped you, they may rejoice and pain just as you do, and they may love and hate with the same heart that beats in your breast, yet still they remain your enemies.

_Love not thy enemies._

For they shall not love you. And even if chances come by that they do love you, they shall still wish for your death. And they shall still celebrate at your grave. They remain your enemies.

_Love not thy enemies._

And think nothing of turning them into your friends. For if they can become your friends, they would not have been your enemies.

The myriad thoughts whirled in his mind as if a storm. They echoed endlessly, warningly, tauntingly, mockingly, refusing to grant him any peace.

_Love not thy enemies…_

_Love not thy enemies…_

Love not thy enemies… 

Suddenly someone entered the tent. A rush of morning desert air blew into the tent, cold and dry. The endless voices in his mind quieted and then ceased. Slowly Aragorn raised his head and looked to the newcomer. The young prince of Harad stood there before him, looking down with dark, wide eyes. Eyes filled with uncertain hatred and angry pity. Eyes that stirred him and drew him to the southern desert five long years ago. Eyes of Harad.

_Love not thy enemies…_

Somewhere in the deep recess of his mind a voice whispered. It was barely audible to him, and it was gone as quick as it came, vanished without a trace.

The young man sat himself down on the ground, and hugged his knees to his chest. He was still staring unblinkingly, dark eyes bewildered with only a faint undercurrent of rage. After a long, droning silence he at last asked, "Are you truly the famous Thorongil of Gondor?"

Aragorn nodded only once and answered quietly, "They called me Thorongil in Gondor."

"Then you must have killed the people of Harad before." The young man said. "The eagle-eyed wight of Gondor was a bane to Harad. He brought endless grieves and woes to our land and people, left children without fathers, mothers without son and wives without their lords! Do you deny that?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I do not deny it. I can not."

There was a ring of steel, and young Haradrim had stood up once more and unsheathed his sword. Anger flared again in him, and his dark eyes burned like simmering coal.

"You were an enemy, and you are still an enemy. You betrayed our trust and conspired against us. Death you have earned with your actions, and Harad shall bestow mercy upon you no longer!" The young man cried loudly, voice resounding in the small tent.

The bright sword now rested on Aragorn's breast, ready to pierce skin and flesh and bone. Aragorn did not stir. The tip of the sword bit into the skin with a sudden forceful thrust, drawing blood. Yet the sword could push no further, as the slender hand that held it began to tremble. At last the sword pulled free and was thrown aside. It landed with a contemptuous clang.

"This can not be!" The youth cried once more, the anger somewhat faded and replaced by more tormented confusion. "How can you be an enemy? You, our dear Taluya, who saved many from injuries and illness with your healing arts, myself included; you who helped us trade with people from the north; you who defended our people from Gondor and Rhun; you who taught us all that we know!"

"I am not an enemy, young one." Aragorn said wearily. "I am ever a friend of Harad, if you would only look on me with kind eyes."

"If you are not an enemy, then why all of this?" The young man asked, voice wretched. "Why release the prisoners against my father's will in the secrecy of the night? Why send conspiring words to our greatest foes? And why set a sword on my neck?"

Aragorn did not answer. His grey eyes were clouded with exhaustion and the resignation of one too tired to try just once more. Perhaps he had registered the fact that he would not be understood.

Receiving no reply Annem spoke again softly, "The Taluya I know would never commit such crimes against the people of Harad, but the cruel Thorongil of the north would. Who are you? Friend, or foe? Taluya? Or Thorongil? Will you not choose?"

There was a half smile on Aragorn's face once more, weary, sorrowful, yet still benevolent. "I can not choose, young one." He said simply. "Such a choice is too singular and too uncomplicated to be of any worth in our world. I can not choose, for I am neither, and I am both."

A long silence had settled, a wretched, miserable silence. When Annem spoke again he seemed infinitely sad, nearing the verge of tears. "Can you not choose, or will you not choose?" He said brokenly. "Is it too much to ask you to forsake a part of you that was long gone, and to become wholly our own Taluya?"

"That is too much to ask, Annem." Aragorn replied evenly. "I have sworn the same oath of fealty to Lord Steward Ecthelion of Gondor as that I have sworn to your father. They are of the same value, and I can not forsake one for another."

"But you can not stay true to both vows." The young prince of Harad said slowly, growing ever more troubled. "Harad and Gondor are enemies!"

Aragorn laughed, and said with the faintest touch of bitterness, "A reality I much desire to change, though it seems so far my effort was in vain."

"You always dream of the impossible." The young man said vehemently.

Aragorn looked at him keenly, grey eyes flashing with a moment of anger that was quickly gone. He said nothing, only turned his eyes away. The young man looked bitter and resentful. For a while it was silent again, at last Annem turned and quickly strode away. He only took a few steps before he turned back in a rush and knelt down before the pale northerner.

"I heard father speak with other lords. They were angry, Taluya." Annem said in a low and urgent voice, a sliver of fear in his eyes. "They would kill you and feed you to the carrions out of their rage."

Another smile was on Aragorn's face, this time amused, "It seems almost a befitting end for me, young one."

"Do not laugh, Taluya, there is no humour in that." Annem said pleadingly. "You would be fortunate if that is to be your fate, Taluya. But they would not kill you yet. They want information that will bring great victories over Gondor, and you are the only one who can provide such."

"I told you once, Annem, that I could not choose to betray Gondor." Aragorn said gently.

"But there is no choice for you now." The young man said sadly. "They will make you speak, Taluya. I do not want you to suffer. Please, save yourself."

"Even your father would press me thus?" Aragorn's voice was still even, devoid of all expressions.

Annem lowered his head and murmured, "He loves you still, Taluya, but that is not enough to placate him. He is feeling angry, and betrayed, and he is still the King of Harad."

Aragorn sighed, and said, "I think I understand now. My thanks for your worries, Annem." Yet more than that he would not say.

The young man stood up slowly and reluctantly, and ere before he stepped out of the tent he turned one last fearful look towards the raven-haired man.

"Please, Taluya." He murmured, and was gone.


	5. Painful Eyes

Pain.

The whip flashed before his eyes again, long strands of leather tipped with many black thorns. The leather looked supple and soft under the flickering torchlight, but it cut like the finest blade. Already, the whip was soaked with blood, glistening a stark crimson. The lash rose, and fell, and landed. The thorns dug in and tore open skin and flesh without mercy as the whip dragged across his back. Another spray of red. Aragorn hissed and shook, but still he refused to murmur a single word.

"Speak!" The man before him barked a command, sharp as biting steel.

"Speak, cur! Tell us what we wish to know, and you may be spared. Be stubborn to the end, and we shall tear every flesh from your bones ere you die."

The voice sounded impassioned, merely cold, cold and hard like the river of ice that flowed from the northern mountains. Anger and contempt there were plenty beneath that sheet of ice, though no malice, no vicious delight.

Then why this needless cruelty?

The whip rose, and fell. Rose and fell. His heart hammered in his chest at a disconcerting speed, answering to the irregular rhythm of the lash. And beneath the pain that threatened to tear endless screams from his throat every moment, he could feel the rivulets of blood crawling down his back. An unnerving feeling with a dizzying effect.

Aragorn found that he could think no longer. Every fiber of him was being torn apart, slowly and with care. He had lost count of how many times the lash fell; only know when to expect the next beat. He had thought and hoped the pain would numb after this endless pain, but it did not. Every lash sent a new wave of agony racing through him, and every wave of agony remained in him, building up rapidly, threatening to snap his back with its deadly weight.

Suddenly he felt the point of cold steel poised beneath his shoulder blade, and saw eyes. Dark, angry and determined eyes.

"Why do you refuse to speak?" The voice was quiet, yet still vehement.

He did not answer, could not answer, for lie would not suffice, and truth would be taken for lie.

Pain. Again. Pain he could not swallow and cage in.

The sword had suddenly pierced his shoulder, hardened steel tearing skin and flesh apart like paper. Blood flowed freely, a stark scarlet. It was enough to tear a hoarse scream from his throat.

"Speak!" The voice cried again, low and fierce, full of determination and righteous anger.

"_Speak!"_

The voice was now different. It sounded like his own voice, his own voice from long ago. Or was it really the same?

"_Speak!"_

_Aragorn pinned the Haradrim soldier against the tree unmercifully, a dagger against the southerner's throat._

"_Speak! Who ordered the ambush on our camp, to what end? And whither went the rest of your company?" His voice was cold, angry, and relentless. "Speak ere I slit your throat slowly and feed you to the crows!"_

"Speak ere I slit your throat slowly and feed you to the crows!"

Was that his own voice also? It did not sound like it. It was said in the tongue of Harad, and he did not speak the southern tongue, least not then, when he would still say such a thing to a Haradrim. Yet the difference was minute enough for the two voices to merge, resounding in his ears as one.

_Only silence answered him. Dark eyes glared back, fierce and furious as his own, eyes that threatened to burn him with their sheer intensity._

"Speak now!" 

_He rammed the unfortunate captive against the tree, tearing a scream from the southerner, an enraged and defiant scream. The man remained silent no longer, instead barked a long stream of words in the Haradrim tongue. Aragorn hesitated for a brief moment. Perhaps this man spoke no Westron and understood him not? Had he been unnecessarily cruel?_

_The moment of hesitation proved enough to be near fatal. The Haradrim soldier lashed out viciously, throwing Aragorn to the ground. Aragorn was a seasoned fighter, and he recovered from the moment's distraction with an inhumane swiftness. It took a split second for him to find his firm hold on the dagger once more, and he did not hesitate to plunge the silver blade into the Haradrim's heart. _

_The Haradrim fell back, limb and unmoving. Death's pallor coloured his dark face, and his hot breath stopped short in his throat. Blood flowed from his wound, dying the many layers of rough fabric he wore harsh red slowly but surely. Yet his eyes were still open, still glaring with the same defiant anger and contemptuous hatred. _

The same eyes glared at him still. They stole across the barrier of a different lifetime to glare at him still, burning with the same intensity. Those eyes were too full of preconceived ideas to see that he was attempting to amend his wrongdoings.

Aragorn found that he could no longer bear the torment. The pain was too much. When he was in such situations before, he always had emotions to live on; rage, defiance, and the wild wish to see ruin come to his foes. Now he had none of those nourishing feelings, only sorrow and aching memories that threatened to hasten the coming of his destruction.

"_Speak."_

Whispered the faceless apparition, light like humming wind, almost inaudible. He could not guess whether it was his own voice or that of his tormentor, though it mattered not. It was one in truth. The world about him was beginning to dim. Light and shadow blurred into one sheet of grey that was darkening rapidly.

And like greeting a long sought for friend Aragorn embraced the darkness.

* * *

Eyes.

He saw eyes when he looked on the waking world once more, dark, beautiful eyes, set in a delicate and youthful face. He had seen those eyes brimming with joy, or anger, or whatever youthful passion swift and fleeting, but never had he seen those eyes so sorrowful and forlorn, and so full of tears.

"Annem." He whispered hoarsely, straining all of his strength to reach out and cup the youthful face with his bloodied hand. "Please, do not shed tears."

The young prince of Harad snatched up his callused hand and held it tightly. The young man seemed no longer the proud prince of a proud nation, but only a fearful child needing something firm to cling on to.

"Taluya, Taluya!" The young man murmured in a trembling voice, now crying openly. "Please do not die, Taluya. Father did not mean this; _we_ did not mean this, not this!"

Aragorn wanted to say something to comfort the young man, but he could not. Every part of him burned with pain, and even staying conscious was too much a strain on his feeble strength. The young man was still crying. Tears streamed down his face freely.

"You should never have come to us, Taluya." The young man said amidst tears with a rare bitterness. "I wish I had never come to know you! I wish you never set a single step in Harad! Why did you come to us, Taluya? Are we not your enemies?"

Those tear-filled dark eyes were looking at him with such sorrow and pity, such bewildered hate and uncertain love. Oh, those eyes! They were the same eyes that drew him to Harad many long years ago.

_The little girl sitting in the midst of the bloodied field had beautiful eyes. _

_None knew when and how she came to be there, but all could see her plainly when the dust of battle had settled. She was kneeling beside a fallen body, hugging the unmoving corpse tight and crying openly. Tears spilt from her dark, beautiful eyes and fell to the barren field like rain. She did not seem to notice the darkening sky and the growing cold, or the tall soldiers from the north looking on silently. She only cried and cried, drowning in grief and wasting herself dry._

_Aragorn could feel his heart pull, and it pained him. The pity in him moved him forward. He gently helped the girl up, holding her dark, fragile arms comfortingly, murmuring soothing words in Sindarian. He did not think he would be thanked, or even understood, but he hoped he could offer some consolation to the small girl._

_The girl threw herself at him piteously and put her thin arms around him. She buried her dark head in his chest and cried into his bloodstained tunic. Aragorn was taken aback for a moment, but he allowed himself to ease and return the girl's embrace. The moment was so deceivingly peaceful that when the sudden pain pierced his back and forced the breath from his chest he could not imagine what transpired for a moment._

_The intense pain spread through his body like a flow of liquid fire. He gasped for air and found that he could not breath. He could feel blood rushing out from his body rapidly, and leaving him in a panicked stupor. _

_A blade. Plunged into his back. And it could be no other than the fragile and frightened little girl washing his bloodied tunic with tears. _

_Already the world was growing blurry, and the colours were fading from land and sky. He could not even find the strength to push the girl away. Stumbling, he fell to his knees. _

_Slowly he raised his head and saw the girl looking down with dark, beautiful eyes still brimming with tears. Those eyes were laughing with triumph, yet crying with grief; they were filled with a vengeful hate, yet also a desponding apology. I hate you, for I must hate you, those eyes said, yet I could have loved you for your kindness. Fear me, those eyes said, and forgive me. Hate me, those eyes said, and love me. _

_Such eyes of ambivalence, Aragorn thought dimly before darkness took him._

Such eyes ambivalence, he thought dimly, looking into the dark, sorrowful eyes of Annem. Harad was, and still is, a nation of ambivalence, he thought.

What of Gondor then?

_When he woke again he found he was in a hastily made camp, lying beside a roaring fire. The sky was dark above him, and it was quiet save some faint chattering of soldiers. He tried to rise, only to be stopped short by the incredible pain in his chest that stole his breath away for a moment. It seemed he must contend himself with only staying conscious for a while. _

_The slight movement was enough to draw a soldier near. _

"_You are awake, Captain Thorongil!" The soldier cried in an excited voice. "We were so afraid! The healers were worried about you. The gods be praised that you are awake once more!"_

_Aragorn looked up at the eager but still concerned young soldier and nodded his thanks. Slowly with a strange fear he asked, "What happened to the Haradrim girl?"_

"_Lieutenant Aloren shot her." The answer came indifferent, or maybe, slightly disgusted, also angry. "Serves her right, the treacherous southern wench. You treated her with nothing but kindness, captain, yet she…" The young soldier was angry enough to lose his words there._

So that was what Gondor had been and always would be: indifferent, disgusted, and angry.

_The young soldier's words were lost to Aragorn, for he thought of the dark-eyed girl, and the news of her death put another knife through his heart. The death of this nameless girl grieved him in a way that he could not wholly understand. _

It was her eyes, Aragorn decided, looking into the eyes of young Annem that held the same ambivalence. It was those eyes of Harad that drew him to the distant southern desert.

"Why did you come here, Taluya? Why?" He heard the young Haradrim ask once more.

Gathering all his strength, Aragorn smiled wanly at the young man.

"I came because your people drew me here." He said quietly. "Your people have beautiful eyes, Annem."


	6. Burning Light

Heat.

Surging through his body like a rabid wild beast.

Aragorn knew very well the fever could kill him, but he could do nothing about it. He could feel the poison of the disease wreaking havoc within him, rendering him powerless. Every part of him burned; his short, uneven breath scorched his throat and seared his lungs.

Already he was growing delirious, straying further and further into the shadows. He could see nothing but grey. Different shades of grey: from the dusky shade of lead, to the pearly light and rising vapor. They seemed to him like the broiling storm clouds.

_There were ominous storm clouds low in the sky. Aragorn raised his head and looked, suddenly feeling anxious. A strange feeling was prodding the edge of his keen senses. Carefully he listened. At first he heard nothing, but then he caught it: a faint sound of rapid hooves stomping on sand, like the rumbling of distant thunder. _

He heard steps. Ruffled and swift steps light like desert hares, hurried with concern. Whispered words hung in the air, fearful. The feel of tension was thick.

_And he also heard footsteps. Hurried and panicked footsteps as the Haradrim rushed out from their canvas tents, hearing the same distant thunder as he did. They looked anxiously to the horizon, then to each other. They all seemed fearful. Then, they saw it in the distance. It was a faint line of stirring sand, signaling riders._

"Lord! He is burning!" Aragorn heard a matronly voice crying out in panic.

Then murmurs.

"What should we do?"

"Can the healers help him?"

Struggling he tried to grasp those echo of voices and hold them firmly, to draw himself away from the delirious reverie that was threatening to swallow him. Yet so insubstantial were those sounds that they slipped right through his fingers and his fight was in vain. Suddenly he longed for other voices, that of Elrond, the wise Elf that he called father for many years, or Arwen, the love of his life, or even Gandalf, dearest of friends and teachers. Their voices were always a tangible light in darkness, one that would lead him back to the waking reality once more. But those faint whispers carried by the south wind, they were less solid, and always hesitant and uncertain. They would not lead him, not even illuminate the way for him.

They would leave him sinking in his muddled dream-memories until he hailed the flimsy dreamscape as reality.

_More tent flaps stirred, rustled by the fearful looking people rushing out. Fearful whispers were likethewhistle of eddyingwinds, low and apprehensive. _

"_Can it be, Gondorian soldiers?"_

"_This far into the desert? How many are there?"_

"_Too many for us to fight! Should we retreat?"_

"_We have not enough horses for all! And there are women and children! Can we possibly outrun them?"_

"_What should we do, Taluya? Taluya!"_

_They looked to him for guidance. Aragorn's head suddenly felt light. When had he taken the mantle of leadership in this little town? He was a mere passing traveler, a northerner friendlier than most with healing arts and sound advises. No more. Why should they look to him as if he was their protector now?_

_The riders were nearing at an alarming speed. Aragorn looked on and was uncertain. He would help those people, yet he could not bring himself to take up arms against the men of Gondor._

_Just then a woman emerged from one of the tents on the edge of the cluster, holding a baby in a bundle. An arrow flew, slicing the air, heading straight for them. The woman shrieked, and instinctively turned her back to cover her child. The baby, noticing the sudden panic, began to howl. The arrow stopped short. Not daring for another moment's delay, the woman raced between the tents, trying to get away as fast as possible. Her naked feet raked across the sand, flying like the dark wings of startled birds, and her face was now streaming with the tears of terror._

_There was no more hesitation now._

"_Run! Retreat!" Aragorn cried, feeling his tongue wrapping around the foreign language newly acquired with a strange ease. "Take your water skins and nothing else. Go!"_

_He was the first to spring away from the rooted fear, but not away. He went to the horses. With one leap he was atop a great stallion, and he rode away like an arrow from the bow. He rode out the oncoming riders. _

_The people of desert were both hunters and hunted, thus they move with the swiftness equaling rangers or even elves. A heartbeat after he cried his commands, he saw out of the corner of his eyes thatthe trail of people were already quickly moving away from the large cluster of tents, disappearing over hills and dunes of sand. And more horses moved up beside him, with their proud and dark Haradrim riders._

"_You will not stand alone, Taluya!" One of the young men cried out loudly. _

_Aragorn smiled wryly. He had to force his mind away from dwelling on the irony of the situation; he must concentrate on bringing defeat to his once allies. Deftly he pulled an arrow and fitted it to the bow, aiming. When the foremost of the riders was with in shooting range, he released the arrow. The tall stallion crumpled as the arrow pierced its breast with its usual accuracy and force. _

"_Spread out!" Aragorn commanded. "Spread out wide you are not easy targets for their arrows! Ride into their line and scatter it!"_

"Perhaps we should call the king."

"Is it wise?"

"I do not know. Perhaps it is unwise to speak to the king now, yet perhaps it is similarly unwise to allow him to sit in ignorance."

More hushed whispers. They sounded even quieter now in his ears, murmurs of a world that he was too tired to reach for. Those whispers resounded from high above amidst the clouds, and he was still sinking, lower and lower into the abyss.

_The line of Gondorian riders looked at least sixty strong, and he had with him no more than a dozen fierce but inexperienced young men. Aragorn knew very well that no victory was possible with the odds stacked thus. He was not hoping for victory; he simply wanted enough time for the people to escape beyond the Gondorian soldiers' reach. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could hope to harass the Gondorian soldiers enough to stop their movement, and beyond that he could not even begin to imagine._

_It started raining arrows. Fortunately almost none found their mark, seeing the Haradrim rode forth at a dizzying speed, with no formation or line. Thunder rolled overhead, followed by spray of desert rain. Good, Aragorn thought grimly, I could use all the distractions right now. _

_He whipped out arrows. Set, draw, aim, and let it fly through the screen of falling water. Another horse came stumbling down, neighing into the storm. Arrow after arrow flew, until his meager quiver was empty. He found that he could only aim for horses. He could not look at those soldiers who were once his allies, much less aim the arrows at them._

_He collided into the Gondorian line sooner than he wished. Blades came swinging his way, drawing fluent arcs and lines. He wanted to speak, to say something, to shout to those soldiers to stop this insanity, but instead he drew his sword, instinctively, unavoidably. Steel clashed, crisp and harsh clings and clangs in the storm. He tried to direct all of his blows to the horses, for he could not do otherwise. _

_He saw bodies on the storm tossed sand, those of Gondorians and Haradrim alike. Enough! A voice inside him screamed. The people were long gone and safe, far from the wrath of the Gondorian soldiers. Retreat now! Turn back your steed and flee ere more harm is done! But he knew it was impossible. The bright swords were too deeply twined to be broken apart now. The battle would not end unless one side or another lay dead and unmoving._

Pain.

He was surprised that he could feel even more pain, yet he did. The raw, burning sensation surrounded him like a poisonous mist, turning even his delirium to a mix of hazy, blurred vision and muffled sound.

_Pain._

_Fighting so reserved when outnumbered severely was not a good idea. On the battlefield, mercy was a perilous virtue. If one would not bestow death, he would then receive death. Aragorn knew it well, yet could not bring himself to do what he had always done. He raised his sword and slashed the flank of a passing horse, hearing the beast scream and buck. Then wheeling the horse around, he turned just in time to avoid being impaled at the tip of a bright sword, yet the blade still grazed his back, drawing a spray of blood quickly washed away by the pelting rain. _

_He hissed and clenched his jaw tight, trying in vain to still the nauseating pain. Blood rushed away from him through the many gashes and cuts at an alarming rate, threatening to shred his consciousness. Another blade came crashing down. Swing and parry, he told himself, and felt his arm lifting in the familiar arc almost automatically. He was glad that he had no time to think. Had he the luxury to ponder, he would be in a dire dilemma indeed. How could he choose who deserved death more? His kin, his kith, or himself?_

_He did not think, only swung his bright sword and parried blow after blow. Faintly he noticed that more and more riders were around him, and more bright swords danced about him, until finally one well-placed sword stroke crippled his horse. The beast bucked and fell beneath him, throwing him off with a tremendous force._

_He landed on his back, and the impact forced the air from his chest with vicious ferocity. The pain was so intense that his world turned black almost instantly. The only thing he saw was a streak of silver in the darkness, and recognized it as a downward swinging blade. Devoid of all hope now, he waited for the sword to crash into his battered corpse. _

Just as now, when he was at last too weary to fight any longer. He only waited, waited for the burning reverie to fade and the sweet oblivion of everlasting darkness to claim him.

_His thread of remaining consciousnessregistered of a faint surprise when the sword never came down. Instead of feeling the stroke of death, he heard more hooves falling like rolling thunders, shouts in the southern tongue, and the clashing of steel that rang with renewed vigor. _

He heard steps, falling steps that sounded like panicked rainfall. Words in the familiar southern tongue sounded, yet while the sound was clear the meaning eluded him completely.

_Straining every last strength he had, he forced his eyes open and looked into the pelting rain. He saw more riders, garbed in the rough cloaks of Harad, fresh with their gears barely wetted by rain. Haradrim reinforcements, he thought dumbly, and found no heart to relish or rejoice. _

"Taluya!"

A voice echoed in his hazy dreamscape. It was a dark and strong baritone, a voice of wild power and majesty, a voice so imposing with its sheer assertion that it was almost tangible. As a light out of darkness the voice shone, yet not the pure and serene light that one would feel endeared to, for it was coloured like the red glow of war and death. The voice offered a hand, yet Aragorn was hesitant to take it. Such was its power and the uncertainty of its friendship that he would not dare bracing it.

_The battled raged against the backdrop of the lead grey of the arching sky. It was over before his mind could register the whole incident. Countless bodies of horses and men alike scattered about him, and the still standing horses wheeled around, carrying their riders from corpse to corpse. _

_Aragorn was surprised when a horse stopped before him and the rider leaped down. It was a tall and imposing man in the prime of his life. His form spoke of primeval strength and wild glory, and a fierce majesty was bout him. The rich purple cloak that he wore marked the importance of his rank. Aragorn looked up at the man and tensed warily, even if his body was too worn for any sort of struggle. The rider looked down coolly with dark eyes, before extending a rough but strong hand. _

"_They say you are a friend." The man said solemnly. "They say you are a northerner that does not bear us in scorn and contempt, instead you bring to us teachings of the wise. If they speak true, if you are indeed a friend, you would rise and take my hand."_

"Taluya! Taluya!" The voice sounded again, the powerful, regal voice of the King of Harad. It was less imposing now, and tinged with sadness.

"Do not forsake me, Taluya! I have wronged you, my friend, and I have abused your faith just as you have mine. I have forgiven you now, friend, for I understand now the justice of your reasons. Will you then try to understand my reasons and forgive me? If you are friend, then open your eyes! If you are friend, wake! Wake and forgive me! Wake and return to me!"

_Straining all his strength, Aragorn extended his arm and took that dark hand. He could feel the warmth and strength slowly embracing him and supporting him. He rose from the ground and said slowly, "I am here."_

Those words tore through his delirium with an articulate force. Hesitant no longer, he grasped the voice and held firm. Straining all his strength, he forced his eyes open and looked into the dark eyes of the Haradrim king. He rose from the bed and said slowly, "I am here."


	7. Hopeful Fury

Hope.

It always hid in the shadow of despair, glinting only when you come plowing through the darkness to look upon it. Aragorn looked out to the rising sun colouring the sky above the golden desert a glorious red, and his heart was glad. He had persevered, and he found hope in the end.

King Hamun had spoken kindly to him, and like many others, he was wearing mixed relish and guilt in his somber expressions, and as light to the darkness of his initial scorn and contempt, the King of Harad agreed to send a sign of friendship to Gondor. The desert people were ever quick to anger, yet just as swift to admit and mend their wrongs. Aragorn was relieved. A renewed vigor and confidence was in him, for, at last, the precious seed that was the recipient of his endless loving labour was putting forth a tender, tentative sapling.

Quiet feet skittering over the golden sand woke him from his thoughts. He turned and found the young Haradrim prince Annem beside him.

"Taluya!" The young man greeted him, coming closer. "Are you well, Taluya?"

"I am well, young one." Aragorn answered.

The young man looked at him closely, and said, "You do not seem well, Taluya. You are still pale, and you look pained." The voice was soft, concerned, a shade fearful and guilty.

Aragorn smiled wanly and said, "I am well, truly. My wounds pain me still, but these are mending fast. You must stop tormenting yourself with guilt whenever you step near me, young one."

The young man returned the smile, sincerely if a little uncertainly. He sat himself down beside the older man and watched the sunrise. There was a companionable silence; nothing could be heard save the crisp morning wind whistling a sweet, low melody.

At last Aragorn asked, "Have your father chosen the delegates to be send to Gondor yet?"

The young man nodded. "He is mostly decided, only a few more people and we shall be ready to go."

Aragorn turned his head slightly. "We?"

The young man smiled brilliantly. "I asked father permission to be part of the delegate, and he said yes. Is it not wonderful, Taluya? I have always listened to your tales of the northern lands with wonder, and now I have a chance to behold those wonders with my own eyes! I have always dreamed of this, flippant and infidel as it may sound."

Aragorn shook his head. "You are being neither flippant nor unfaithful to your own by wishing to behold lands beyond, yet…" He paused here, and frowned. At last he said, "If you will go, Annem, I wish you will go as a commoner, not the prince of Harad."

"You fear for my safety, Taluya?" The young man asked uncomprehendingly. "But we go with peaceful intentions and friendship. Should we not be received with the same?"

For a long time Aragorn was silent. Finally he replied, "I believe and I hope, yet still I am not certain. Gondor was never merciful or forgiving, and it was always too proud to admit any wrongs. The steward of the realm as of now is especially not known for tolerance. This will not be an easy journey, young one, and I do not wish to place you in more than the necessary risk."

"But what of you, Taluya?" The young man asked; all the eager excitement faded. "They know you in Gondor, and if they are as unforgiving as you say, what would they think of you now?"

Aragorn was hesitant, but he laughed and answered with a sigh, "Whatever their reactions, least they shall not be surprised. Words should have reached the White City long ago of my presence here, along with my letter to the Lord Denethor."

The young man nodded, yet still there was a hint of fear in his dark eyes and he looked on the pale northerner.

* * *

They rode out from Harad a fortnight later, a delegate of twenty in total. They were garbed in the rough, many layered clothes of the south, their dark hair flying in the morning wind with defiance. The steeds beneath them were tall and wild, rough and sharp as if hewn out of sandstone. Indeed, that was what the entire delegate looked, rough and wild, like the desert falcon with its hardened wings.

They rode swiftly, and in mere days the golden desert gave way to gentle plain with tall, crisp, yellow grass. Water flowed easily in these lands; the many streamlets were like a silver web over the southern prairie. Then the prairies changed to woodlands, with shapely trees and flowering vines. The many streamlets turned to leaping creeks, noisy and merry. The great Anduin flowed past to their west, and they were ever aware of its thundering presence.

After the company crossed the River Poros, Aragorn's wariness magnified tenfold. He was ever alert and watchful, and he would lead the company away from the trodden paths and through the treacherous parts of the woodland, ways and bends that even the experienced rangers of Ithilien would hardly know. The Haradrims were much mystified by his actions, but such was their love and respect for him that they did not question at all. No one, not even the young prince of Harad, knew the true extend of Aragorn's fears, for he spoke lightly of them. Yet he had indeed been waiting for hindrance of some kind ever since the company crossed into Gondor. In his heart he knew Denethor would not interpret his letter kindly. Perhaps it was the secrecy of the path, perhaps it was fortune's blessing for a change, but they met no hindrance until they were almost upon the white city.

On the last evening of their journey young Annem asked eagerly, "Are we almost at the White City, Taluya?"

"We still have many leagues to travel ere we are upon the city, prince." Aragorn replied with a gentle smile, not unmoved by the young man's zeal.

"Long have I waited for the moment to behold the White City! I wonder, is it truly as splendid as tales say? How does it compare to our Memfessa in the heart of the desert?" The young man exclaimed dreamily, eyes gazing distantly as if his sight could pierce the endless layers of trees and vines and catch the white splendor gleaming faraway.

It was this precise moment that Aragorn heard the faint ruffling sound. The small insignificant sound intruded on his awareness with the edge of a fine blade. He reined his horse with a sudden jerk, and stayed still as a stone. Seeing his action, the company turned deadly silent; Annem's eager smile faded like rain in the desert.

In the utter silence, Aragorn caught more sound: shuffling feet, snapping of branches and the unnatural shifting of boughs and leaves. He saw shadows among the branches, green shades that flitted between the distant branches and trunks. Aragorn recognized those instantly: they were the rangers of Ithilien. Slowly he dismounted from his horse, and raised his hands, palms outward in sign of peace.

"Friends of Gondor!" He cried in clear voice, "We come to you in peace, bearing our friendship and good will out of the desert. We wish to look upon your great city and speak to your people. Will you let us pass?"

Only silence answered him. Slowly and cautiously Aragorn walked forward, until his lone figure was a good distance before the company. Again he cried, "Come friends! Will you not greet us?"

This time he did receive an answer. Out of the boughs and leaves an arrow whistled and hurtled towards him. Aragorn did not expect such a reply. The arrow came flying with such celerity, and it struck his arm and pierced to the bone ere he could react. The impact sent him stumbling backward, gasping for air. The pain sent a dizzying wave through him, and for a moment the world looked black.

"Taluya!" Annem shouted and leaped over to help him, dark eyes bewildered and afraid.

Aragorn pushed the young man back forcefully. He stood up shakily and cried out in a hoarse voice, "Back! Stay low! Take shelter behind trees!"

No sooner did the Haradrim scatter into the dense foliages like hunted deer than the arrows started raining down. Aragorn dragged himself to a large tree took shelter from the deluge of arrows behind the sturdy trunk. Annem was still by his side, supporting him. Aragorn had no more strength to push the young man away, so he allowed the youth there. The pain in his arm was rendering the world into a dim, blurred tapestry of shadows.

"Taluya!" Annem whispered, anxious and fearful. "What now, Taluya?"

Aragorn did not know. It looked impossible. He had expected suspicion from the Gondorians, yes, reluctance and hindrance too, but never could he imagine that such an open attack would lie in waiting, after all the declarations of peace and good will. Or had he always secretly known and expected such, only reluctant to admit it?

How could they possibly defend from the attack? Many of the company were no warriors, rather merchants, artisans, and men of learning, and they bore little weapons. Now scattered in the unfamiliar woodland, directionless and beleaguered with fright, they were doomed to be hunted down one by one like hares. Already he could see the green shadows advance towards his direction. His loving labor, his long suffering borne in silence, all of these was rewarded with only livid intransigence.

A sudden anger engulfed him; a wild fury that he had not tasted for many years was suddenly in him once more. Gone was his usual kindness, vanished his reserve, and his patience was wearing perilously thin. In his fevered rage his mind gained a new acuity, and it launched into a ruthless calculation that was almost above the rest of him. The rangers of Ithilien were great foresters; they were at one with the woods. Yet that was also their one vulnerability, for they were too entangled with the forest to truly master it.

With unfeeling eyes Aragorn began to note every detail about him: a great wind was blowing from south, towards the approaching rangers; the air was crisp and the forest was dry, result of at least two fortnights without rain; the forest floor was blanketed with yellowed leaves and broken boughs. Aragorn turned to the young Haradrim beside him and said, "Signal the people; tell them to flee south against the wind."

Annem did not seem to understand, but he obeyed without a word. He whistled: long and short shrill notes like the warning of alert birds before the coming of the predators. While Annem sent words of warning to the Haradrims already scattered in the woods with those birdcalls, Aragorn took out pieces of flint. He struck the flint, once, twice, his aching, bleeding, trembling arms could not bring the flint together with enough force; thrice he struck the flint, and finally sparks leaped and landed on the wide palm of a yellow, beechen leaf. The air hissed, and flame sprang forth in poisonous red blooms, dancing seductively with malicious glee.

Annem's eyes widened, but he said naught. He only took the pale northerner's arms and fled into the woods, whistling a trail of shrill birdcalls. They stopped short when they reached a shallow silver stream, where some Haradrims had already gathered. Aragorn collapsed onto the forest floor, drawing short, ragged breaths painfully. His entire sleeve was crimson now.

Wordlessly Annem knelt beside him, and took the shaft of the arrow still protruding from Aragorn's arm and wrenched it free in one jerk. Aragorn clenched his teeth, straining not to lash out at the youth. The pain and anger combined was turning his mind to a heated blade, sharp and feverish. Still quietly Annem began to cleanse and bind the wound, slender fingers moving slowly with the clumsiness of someone little practiced for the healing art. Yet his touch was comforting nonetheless, and slowly Aragorn's breath slowed and evened.

At last when Annem was finished he said quietly, "Rest, Taluya. We are safe here, for a while at least."

"Yes, safe for a while." Aragorn closed his eyes briefly and murmured, his voice distant and withdrawn.

Slowly as if fearful he turned and looked northward. The sky was aglow with firelight; columns of dark smoke rose from the treetops, quickly disseminated by the wind; birds were wheeling in the sky with panicked stupor, screaming and shrieking, and flying with them were red blooms of fire, riding the south wind. The red glow reflected in Aragorn's clear grey eyes, eerie and otherworldly.

"By the Valar." He whispered, voice barely audible. "What have I done?"

For a long time he stared at the flame in the distance fixedly as one in trance. But at last he turned his gaze back once more and stood up slowly.

"Come, we must leave this place now." He said quietly in an impossibly steady voice. "We shall find a more secluded place that offers more shelter and rest. The night is almost upon us."

And turning away he took a heavy and weary step into the labyrinth of woods. Silently the Haradrims followed him.


	8. Dying Peace

Death.

Aragorn looked out to the forest and saw nothing but death. The wind had died in the night, and a gentle, discreet shower fell shortly after. The fire had diminished mostly, save a few wild blooms here and there, glazing the dark sky a faint glowing red. Charred trees stood in the night, defiantly straight yet bleakly black, at the doorstep of death or already dead. Ravens wheeled overhead in their perpetual hunt for carnage. The scent of roasted birds and beasts in the dead woodland beneath attracted those eager scavengers.

Slowly Aragorn collected his wandering gaze once more and looked about him. In the small makeshift camp everyone slept except him. Though the night was deep, and he was pained and wearied, still he could find no rest. The sight, sound, scent of death assaulted him from all directions, mercilessly and without tire, whispering bitter accusations to him. A lesser man would despair, or become crazed or furious, but Aragorn only sat there, bearing the onslaught in silence.

He neither grieved nor despaired, nor allowed himself to wallow in guilt. For what use was any of those? He was not ready to forsake and condemn his aim just yet, even with so many lives already lost and so much pain already suffered on the way, for if he turn back now and abandon his goal altogether, then truly those lives and pains would be lost and suffered in vain.

Slowly he stood up. He walked over to where the Haradrim prince was lying in fitful sleep and shook the young man gently. Annem opened his eyes and for a moment looked up blearily with clear confusion.

At last the young man asked, "Taluya?"

"Not so loud, my prince." Aragorn said in a low voice. "Come, I would speak with you."

The young man gathered himself up and followed the northerner. Aragorn also woke Sadi, an old Haradrim merchant who was well traveled and knew the land of Gondor well. Together the three went to the edge of the camp.

"I did not think we would receive such open enmity in Gondor," Aragorn began in his quiet, even voice, "But today's events were evidence enough. It would be foolish now for us to make for the White City; we shall be hunted like base outlaws."

"Are you thinking of turning back then, Taluya?" Old Sadi asked.

"No, at least, I shall not turn back." Aragorn clenched his jaw. "I shall make for Minas Tirith now, and to plead Harad's case before the lords of Gondor on the morrow."

Annem's eyes widened, "Alone?"

Aragorn nodded, "I know this land well. Alone by myself, I can easily slip past the rangers patrolling these woods and reach Minas Tirith. I do not think I can do the same with a company of twenty. And also, none will see me as a threat and hinder me."

"What do you wish for us to do then?" Sadi asked prudently.

"To remain here and wait for me." Aragorn said. "The rangers are likely still hunting for the band of Haradrim that supposedly invaded their land, and it will be dangerous for you to travel until I can convince Gondor otherwise."

He paused for a moment, then added quietly, "Wait for me for three days. If I do not return after that, then you should depart from Gondor at once. You know the land well, Sadi, and with the maps I provided you should lead the company back to Harad safely."

The old man nodded gravely and said nothing, apprehension and pain and understanding alike were in his aged eyes. But young Annem cried out, "We can not possibly let you go to Minas Tirith alone! I shall go with you, Taluya."

"My prince, it will only place you in unnecessary danger…" Aragorn objected.

"No!" Annem cut him off mid-sentence and said passionately. "I will not you bear this burden and risk your life alone. Harad sent her children here with you because she believes you and she believes the cause. She will not turn back because some obstacles now lie in the path. I shall go with you, for I will not have people say Harad uses other to fight her battle and brace the line of fire."

Aragorn looked at the young man, amazed and speechless. At last he said with a sigh, "Yet your duty will have you remain here, prince; your people need you."

"My duty also says I should accompany you to Minas Tirith, to do what we set out to do." Annem said firmly. "Sadi knows the land well as you said. He can take care of the others."

Aragorn lifted his hands in sign of defeat, though a half smile was once more on his pallid and stern face. "If that is what you will, young one." He said. "Your strength and courage never cease to amaze me. If you are decided, then let us depart. We have a few hours of darkness to reach the White City."

Turning to Sadi he said, "Keep the others safe while we are away, old friend. We shall return with all speed we can gather, if fortune be kind."

The old man nodded gravely and watched Aragorn and Annem take their leave and stepped into the myriad of trees. He stood there and watched their retreating backs, until at last they vanished completely in the shadows of the night. Then Sadi knelt down on the cold forest floor and murmured a silent but fervent prayer.

* * *

The pair wove between the woodland for hour upon and hour, and when the first ray of sunlight gleamed, they saw the White City gleaming against the backdrop of precipitous rocks. The plain before the city was vibrant and teeming with travelers even at such an early hour. Pulling their hooded dark cloaks still tighter about them, the two joined the stream of people and went through the first gate with little trouble. Inside the city was ebullient with colourful sights and boisterous sounds. People were streaming by, shouting, pulling carts and wagons of goods, setting up booths. Annem looked about him with wonder. 

"Today is the monthly market day in Minas Tirith." Aragorn explained quietly to the young Haradrim. "Many people from the fiefdoms about the city come here on this day to trade and barter. The watch at every gate is lax on this day. It is also the day every month when the Steward himself and other lords and captains of Gondor sit in open council in the courtyard before the citadel to hear the grievances and requests of the people. It is our one chance to propose our case before the people of Gondor."

Annem looked at his companion and asked uncertainly, "Do you think they will accept our offer of peace and friendship, Taluya? They have already rejected it once, have they not?"

To that Aragorn answered slowly, selecting his words with care, "Those rangers only acted on the command they received rather than their own beliefs. The Lord Steward was and most likely still is not well disposed towards me, and perhaps that was the reason for his hostility. The people of Gondor are neither intolerant nor vindictive. They will accept friendship, for they too tire of such an ancient feud with its cause already lost."

Annem nodded, and Aragorn offered the young man another half smile. Yet Aragorn was troubled, for he had spoken with more confidence that he had felt. What if the feud was too ancient, too deep to be uprooted? What then? Forcefully he pushed the shadowy doubts into the deepest recess of his mind, for he could not turn back now, and he would not have such thoughts dog his steps.

Aragorn traced the familiar stone streets with ease, leading the ever curious and excited Annem through the many gates before they at last reached the citadel. The courtyard of white stone gleamed brightly in the sunlight. The fountain leaped merrily, glittering like a shower of diamonds and pearls. The dead white tree in the center of the courtyard did not seem so austere at the moment; its shapely trunk and branches looked graceful and eloquent, though endlessly sad. A half circle of chairs was arranged about the fountain, and the lords and captains of Gondor were seated there. In the center seated in a great chair of gilded mahogany, was Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor.

Already many people were gathered in the courtyard, some to make complaints and requests, others to settle disputes, and more merely there to observe, having much interest in the politics and affairs of the state. Annem watched with absolute fascination. Every speaker announced himself and was led before the lords; there he would receive a wreath of woven white willow branches, signifying the grace of the King and Realm, and he who wore the white wreath shall speak to his heart's contend with fear of neither persecution nor unjust wrath.

Speaker came after speaker and pleaded his case. The lords passed judgments and decreed new laws, and the people gathered gave their consent or disagreement as well. When the sun reached the zenith and noon bore down in its full glory no more speakers emerged from the crowd.

"If there be more grievances and requests, let him come forth and receive the white wreath, and speak to all of Gondor with neither fear nor hindrance!" The herald cried in a clear voice, and no one came forth.

The herald repeated his words once more. Receiving no reply he repeated it for the third and last time. Tradition had it that thrice shall the herald call to the crowd, and if no man came forth, the gathering would be declared over. But at the last call Aragorn emerged from the crowd and stepped before the lords and received the white wreath from the herald. Annem followed him closely.

"Who stands before the lords of Gondor? Let him declare his name and country." Denethor said in his usual stern and authoritative voice.

"I am Taluya of the desert of Harad, and also an old friend and ally, Thorongil" Aragorn said clearly, throwing back his hood.

There was a moment of stunned silence, before amazed murmurs rippled across the crowd. Both names were well known in Gondor, one exulted with fierce pride, another murmured with arcane fear. It seemed incredulous that any man would claim to possess both names before all of Gondor. But some of the lords and captains recognized the man, the great captain Thorongil from long ago, and they were astonished.

Denethor's face showed no change outward, save the sharpening of his already hard contour. He said coldly to the dark-haired man before him, "So you have returned, Thorongil."

Aragorn bowed slightly. "Indeed I have, my lord." He said. "It has been many years."

"And like always your reputation precedes you." Denethor continued. "I have heard that you are now the esteemed captain and protector of Harad, under yet another false name. Do you deny that?"

Evenly Aragorn answered, "I do not deny it, my lord."

A look of disgust and contempt crossed Denethor's face. He said in a thundering voice, "Why have you come back then? How dare you come back and stand before all of Gondor to wag your forked tongue, faithless traitor? Gondor has neither patience nor mercy for traitors; you shall be punished as the treasonous worm that you are."

Soldiers fanned out around him, swords drawn, ready to strike him down as soon as Denethor utters the command. Aragorn did not heed those soldiers. Calmly, slowly, gravely he placed the white wreath upon his brow and looked on the lords of Gondor seated before him. Suddenly he seemed changed, now tall, commanding, stately. The weight of many years' toil fell from his shoulders, and his keen grey eyes blazed. The white wreath of willow branches at his brow seemed to meld into a flaming silver crown. There he stood, beneath the full light of noon, shinning with glory of an age undimmed by sorrow. All watched with awe and disbelief, for that moment he looked a King.

"The grace of King and Realm gives me blessing and grants me the right to speak before the people." He said, voice ringing. "Will you deny that, my lord?"

"Speak then, if you will." Denethor declared vehemently, eyes smoldering with rage. "But know that the people of Gondor will not be so easily swayed by your treacherous words, for their hearts are loyal to Gondor."

Aragorn bowed once more and answered the challenge with his usual even words, "I am a mere messenger, my lord, and the decision lies with the people, not with you or me."

Denethor's grey eyes glared dangerously, but the steward spoke no more. Aragorn bowed one last time and straightened.

"My lords and captains, my friends and kinsmen!" He began, clear voice rising over the ripple of murmurs, full of majestic grandeur yet also the endearing melody, like the heralding call of a great eagle. "I return to you from Harad, out of the great desert of the south. 'Tis true that I dwelt with the desert people for many years, and loved them and was loved just as I loved Gondor. Yet I do not come to you as an enemy, and I beg you to not to perceive me as one. My heart has always been and will remain always with Gondor, and my allegiance shall not waver. I come to you, friends, to bear a message from the people of desert: a message that after many years of bewildered pondering and conflicting doubt they are finally willing to send with full sincerity; a message to halt, if not end forever, all strives and feuds; a message of friendship and peace."

"Long have Gondor and Harad fought, relentlessly and incessantly. Those conflicts were never fuelled by any tangible reasons, but rather, a bitter hatred and contempt with its original cause already too ancient to be remembered. Men of Harad are cruel, so it is said in Gondor. Soldiers return home to account the atrocities those southern barbarians commit. They tell you the desert people attack without justifications and kill without mercy; they tell you those people show nothing but primal rage and hatred. I am not here to accuse those people who speak such things, for they are honourable men and they speak what they believe to be truthful. Yet know you what they say in Harad? They tell the same things: how the barbaric northerners attack without reasons and slaughter defenseless women and children unprovoked. They too grieve their dead and rail against the injustice. They are honourable men also, and they speak what they believe just like you. I have heard both people, and I have seen both frontlines, and I know no one spoke false. There is no right and wrong in such an endless feud, only misunderstandings and reluctance to forgive. Gondor and Harad are like unwilling soldiers with their swords locked, both thinking there is no end until the other is struck dead. Yet there is another way: if both would step back just a little, the swords would untangle with ease."

"Harad is willing to take a step back: she sent her messengers here with words of peace and friendship. Will Gondor not accept? Harad is a great power in the south. She will prove a prosperous partner in trade, as well as a staunch friend in battle. Will Gondor turn down such a friend and ally?"

There was an astounded silence. At last Denethor said with a cold laugh, "And how much credibility is in your words, Thorongil? Are you merely acting on your own fanciful little ideas, or have you another nation enthralled?"

"Nay! You speak unjust words!" It was Annem who leaped and cried out in an indignant voice. "Harad does not follow blindly; she has faith in Taluya because he proved to be a dear friend and teacher, one who gave whatever he possessed to the people of Harad ungrudgingly. Harad doubted once, but now she sends her message of peace wholeheartedly with nothing but genuine sincerity, for she too tires of the endless, vain struggles."

The young man straightened and raised his head proudly, and took a roll of parchment from the folds of his cloak. "I am Annem, Prince of Harad, and I speak on the behalf of my nation and my people. Here is Harad's proposition of peace, the sign of her good will." Here the young Haradrim turned his back towards the lords and faced the people. Holding the parchment aloft he cried out loudly, "Will Gondor accept our offer of peace?"

The courtyard was silent save the faint sound of the clear water in the fountain leaping into the sky. But at last a single voice rang from the crowd, shouting, "Peace! We will have peace!"

The first shout was like the little stone that stirred endless ripples. Waves of waves of eager and joyous cries rang.

"Peace! Peace! Peace!" The single syllable rang again and again, like the tolling of great bells.

Aragorn took the roll of parchment from Annem. He knelt down before Denethor, holding the parchment above his head to the steward of the realm.

"The people have spoken, my lord." He said quietly.

Denethor's relentless stormy gaze bore into him without mercy, but Aragorn returned the look unflinchingly. At last Denethor took the roll of parchment from Aragorn's hand.

"Gondor and Harad will have peace then, as the people willed." He declared loudly.

A single cheer rang from the courtyard. In the arch of blue heaven above, a great eagle and a desert moon-hunter wheeled in their usual predatory dance, and their shadows were one upon the white stone of the courtyard.


	9. Epilogue

The Haradrims rode single file on their homeward road, a dark shadow across the featureless plain before the White City ere the morning was young. They came out of the desert twenty in total, but now returning one less in number, for Aragorn would not return with them. He now stood at the gate of the White City, gazing across the plain at the retreating backs of the Haradrims. Beside him stood an old man, garbed in grey, travel-worn cloak and a pointy, blue hat.

The two stood in silence under the tender morning light, watching the riders of Harad to fade away at the horizon. At last the old man spoke, an amused and merry tinkle in his voice, "It seems you begrudge my snatching you away on the eve of your glory again."

Aragorn shook his head and answered, his voice devoid of levity, "I bear you nothing but gratitude for sending me words from north and reminding me of my duties. I am merely sad at the farewells, Gandalf."

"I understand, child." The old man said kindly. "It seems these people do love you with all sincerity."

There was something in the old wizard's voice that made Aragorn turn and speak sharply, "You speak as if you doubt them."

The old wizard said dryly, "Excuse an old man for his stubborn beliefs, my child. I come to know those people as enemies, and I still see them as enemies."

"Why?" Aragorn pressed.

"The bond of servitude to the Dark Lord is not so easily broken." Gandalf said gravely. "My heart tells me when the final confrontation comes, the Haradrims will be allied with Mordor as they have always done, against the free people of Middle-earth."

Aragorn turned his head and said evenly, "I have not such wisdom as yours, Gandalf, and I can not see schemes of that scale. I must always deal with the more pressing human concerns."

"Yet you are the heir of kings," The old wizard admonished, "A ruler of men. A king should always know to look at the grander design."

"Yet should not a king also look to his subjects and perceive them for the grieving and rejoicing beings that they are rather than pieces in some larger-than-life game?" Aragorn's reply came swift and with a rare acridity.

Gandalf laughed long and soft, saying at last, "Your temper and tongue grow sharper every time I see you, boy."

Aragorn bowed his head and said evenly, "My apologies, Gandalf."

"Nay! You speak true." Gandalf said. "Indeed, we the immortal wise look on the world and perceive only a great tapestry; we never choose to see the individuals that weave the tapestry and their concerns. I have loved few in this world; even you, my boy, I come to cherish only because you hold key to the survival and renewal of Middle-earth."

"The wise are burdened with the fate of the world. It is no injustice that they cannot see to the trivial concerns of every individual. I spoke foolishly, Gandalf; forgive me." Aragorn said.

Again the old wizard shook his head, "Nay! I would never call your concerns and accomplishments trivial, for without those human concerns there is no difference between Sauron and the White Council. We are here to aid, not to rule, though it is always difficult for us to not look down to the world and manipulate it like a game master before his chessboard. It gladdens my heart, child, to see you so learned with the indifferent wisdom of the immortals and yet still full of human compassion."

"You speak too highly of me, old friend." Aragorn murmured. "All my actions are forced from me by necessity."

The wizard laughed, and said in a clear voice, "Then we should all be thankful that your necessity includes so little of self."

At this Aragorn could only smile wryly.

The two spoke no more. Slowly and surely they began to tread across plain northward. At the bank of the great Anduin, Aragorn turned and cast one last look southward, to the White City, and to the desert with its City of A Thousand Tents, Memphessa.

Then turning, he left both Gondor and Harad and would not return for many years.

* * *

AN: And it is done! My most sincere thanks to everyone who reviewed, and special thanks to Viggomaniac, who was kind enough to add my story to her esteemed C2. I am infinitely grateful for everything. I hope everyone who was alongside with me on this little ride had as much fun as I did. Until next time!  



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